


we both know what we know

by Slumber



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Art, Canon Compliant, Friends With Benefits, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M, Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29115039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: It starts with a Seijoh reunion.Yahaba’s surprise at finding Kyoutani there (gruff, skittish, still sohot) is short-lived—the get-together is because Iwaizumi’s back for the holidays, after all—and quickly replaced by the long-dormant urge to needle and tease, to pull at loose threads and watch them unravel. He’d never call himself an instigator, not in polite company.But Kyoutani was never that.What they have is completely, absolutely, no-strings-attached casual fucks. That is all.(It is not all.)
Relationships: Kyoutani Kentarou/Yahaba Shigeru
Comments: 18
Kudos: 203
Collections: Play Ball Zine Collection





	we both know what we know

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Play Ball Zine, with art by [Nice Day, Bucky!](https://twitter.com/nicedaybucky)

It’s nearly midnight by the time the Argentina game ends, even later by the time Yahaba finds his way to Kyoutani’s, slipping into his darkened room with the familiarity and stealthy ease of someone who’s snuck in countless times before. He only stumbles once, and that’s because of the stupid dumbbell on the floor and not at all from the liquor in his system. No sir.

“You smell drunk,” Kyoutani mutters, stirring in his bed once Yahaba’s found him, crawling on top of the bed and bracketing his knees on either side of him. It doesn’t sound like a complaint. “Isn’t Watari staying with you tonight?”

“Gave ’im my key,” Yahaba mumbles, fumbling in the dark to peel off a thin blanket, to slip hands beneath the hem of an even thinner shirt. His palms find a solid chest, his forehead resting on a sleep-warmed shoulder, his lips moving against hot skin. “Told him to go ahead, I just had to—”

“Run an errand? At this time of night?” Kyoutani snorts, one hand settling on Yahaba’s hip, the other hooking beneath his chin and tilting it up. There’s a sliver of moonlight that cuts through the window slats, illuminating the space between them. Honey brown eyes, thick with amusement, meets his own liquid gaze. A rough thumb swipes at his cheekbones, hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to smudge.

Yahaba frowns, remembering the blue and white stripes he’d painted on them earlier. “Problem?”

“M’not fucking an Argentina fan,” Kyoutani says. _Lies._ Yahaba can feel his half-chub pressing against his thigh as it is. “Iwaizumi-san’s on the National Team, but you—”

Yahaba rolls his hips to shut him up. “We know, we know, he got you in the divorce,” he says, cupping Kyoutani’s face and leaning down. “I didn’t ditch poor Watari to get a lecture on which senpai I’m supposed to be supporting.”

“Yahaba—” Kyoutani starts, but Yahaba’s mouth finds his, swallowing his protests up in a sloppy kiss, wet and heady, nothing between them but slick spit, the sound of heavy breathing, the occasional moan.

Kyoutani tastes like minty toothpaste, an odd flavor to combine with Yahaba’s cheap beer, but he’s masterful with his tongue, rubbing the tip of it against the valley of Yahaba’s just fucking right, and Yahaba lets out an ungodly mewl, grinding down against Kyoutani with a fraction more desperation than earlier.

“Shh,” Kyoutani says, placing a hand over Yahaba’s mouth. “You’re gonna wake people up.”

“Urgh,” Yahaba groans, remembering why they usually did this at his apartment and not at Kyoutani’s dorm. “Fine, just—” He paws at Kyoutani’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head.

“You really want me to fuck you?” Kyoutani asks, something searching and curious in his gaze. He’s not _not_ down for it, and the way his brow is furrowed looks thoughtful and almost sweet. His palm hasn’t left Yahaba’s hip, thumb tracing tiny circles against him.

“Your hand—” Yahaba starts.

“S’okay, I got it,” he says, undoing Yahaba’s pants and pushing him up to help him take it off until Yahaba’s naked from the bottom down, straddling Kyoutani over his blanket and holding onto his shoulders. Kyoutani circles his cock with a firm grip, his palm rough and calloused and hot and everything Yahaba’s been dreaming of on his dick since about halfway through the last set. He lets out a low moan, lips parting, eyes closed, and this time— “I got you,” Kyoutani whispers, quieting him down with his mouth on his, swallowing down the sound he makes when he comes all over Kyoutani’s hand.

* * *

It starts with a Seijoh reunion. 

Yahaba’s surprise at finding Kyoutani there (gruff, skittish, still so _hot_ ) is short-lived—the get-together is because Iwaizumi’s back for the holidays, after all—and quickly replaced by the long-dormant urge to needle and tease, to pull at loose threads and watch them unravel. He’d never call himself an instigator, not in polite company.

But Kyoutani was never that.

“You’re still so easy to rile up,” Yahaba says with a low chuckle, meeting Kyoutani’s dark-lined eyes in the bathroom mirror later, as the reunion starts to dwindle down.

Kyoutani scowls, riled up. 

Whatever he snaps back in return is lost to the alcohol-limned blur of Yahaba’s memory of the evening, except for the way it makes Yahaba feel like falling back to old habits. 

He remembers this feeling all too well: a spark of heat blooming in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins, sharp taunts sweet and familiar on his tongue. He has no reason to make the comment that he does—something about Iwaizumi, something about hero worship—except for the way Kyoutani shows teeth when he snarls and how that spikes Yahaba’s pulse in a way that he’d missed, in a way it hadn’t since the last time they did this.

Old habits.

This time it’s Kyoutani who pushes him back against the wall and Kyoutani who tells him off, but Yahaba doesn’t freeze like Kyoutani did. Instead, he curls his fingers against Kyoutani’s crisp button-down and yanks him close to crush their mouths together. 

New wants.

“What’re you doing?” Kyoutani asks, but his voice is tinged with awe and wonder, his cheeks flushed deep red with desire.

Bereft, Yahaba chases after his lips, swiping a hot tongue against Kyoutani’s lower lip. He presses closer, asks, “What’s it look like?” against Kyoutani’s mouth. “Problem?”

Kyoutani shakes his head, his own breath unsteady. “Is this happening then?” 

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” Yahaba asks, but he tugs Kyoutani by his shirt, wrinkling it beyond salvaging, and pulls them over into one of the bathroom stalls. Locks it shut behind them. One more heated kiss, open-mouthed and wet and desperate, until Yahaba’s pulling away and pushing Kyoutani down to his knees.

Turns out, he has no problems with that, either.

* * *

It continues, but only because suddenly Yahaba can’t stop running into him. 

At a mixer one of Yahaba’s coworkers sets up. 

At karaoke with Yahaba’s college friends. 

At the _barber’s_ , because apparently, they have the same one.

“The hell did you do to your hair?” Kyoutani asks.

“What, you don’t like it?” Yahaba bristles, arms crossed and hackles raised. “That’s rich coming from someone who looks like a tennis ball, so—”

Then Kyoutani bites down on his lip, the corners twitching until a snort comes out and his eyes crinkle up in something that looks like amusement instead of the defensiveness Yahaba was preparing for, and he wasn’t—he didn’t— “No need to get prissy,” Kyoutani says. “I was just surprised. Looks good on you.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like your opinion...” Yahaba starts but falters at the way Kyoutani raises an eyebrow at him. Gruff is a hot look on him, and Yahaba knows he finds Kyoutani attractive or they wouldn’t be—whatever they’re doing—but without that baseline look of irritation when Kyoutani looks almost _playful_ , he’s actually quite handsome. Yahaba swallows something that feels like his heart leaping to his throat. Schools his face back into a glare. “My apartment’s not far from here.”

Kyoutani’s eyes flash with something Yahaba barely catches. “I’m free.”

Yahaba pins him to the wall as soon as the door closes behind them, grinds their hips together as he bites at Kyoutani’s lip, sucks a bruise against his neck, pulls at his shirt and pushes it up and over to take it off. In the afternoon sun, without the haze of alcohol and the cover of dimly lit, narrow spaces, Yahaba can appreciate him more fully. Takes his time to, in fact. 

“M’glad you didn’t stop playing,” he breathes, running his fingers up toned abs and a sculpted chest.

“Shut up,” Kyoutani mumbles, the tips of his ears red even as he averts his gaze downward, busying himself with undoing Yahaba’s belt buckle. 

“Wait—” he says, breath catching when Kyoutani’s gaze meets his. “I have a bed,” he tells him. “In my bedroom. Be a bit silly if we don’t take advantage, now that we don’t have to keep standing.”

“You usually make me kneel,” Kyoutani reminds him once they’re in bed, Yahaba on his back, Kyoutani caging him in with both arms on either side of him.

“I don’t like getting my clothes dirty.”

Kyoutani eyes the space next to the bed where the rest of their clothes lay. “They won’t get dirty now.”

Yahaba licks his lips. “Come up here then and I’ll make it up to you,” he says, grabbing Kyoutani by the back of his thighs and nudging him higher, so he’s got both knees bracketing Yahaba’s head. The tip of his dick’s already dripping precum, and Kyoutani lets out a hiss when Yahaba tongues its slit. “Easy,” he murmurs, holding onto Kyoutani’s thighs as he closes his mouth around Kyoutani, hollowing his cheeks to take him in. 

“Do I really look like a tennis ball?” Kyoutani asks later, a question mumbled so sleepily into Yahaba’s shoulder that Yahaba’s not sure Kyoutani meant to say it out loud.

“You mean it wasn’t intentional?” Yahaba asks, turning his head around to catch the scowl on Kyoutani’s face. Cute. He snickers. “No, you don’t look like a tennis ball.”

“Alright,” Kyoutani says, his face uncreasing. 

Yahaba can’t resist. “You’re still bleach blond, and tennis balls are lime green,” he adds, cackling when Kyoutani shoves a pillow at his face. 

It’s totally worth it.

* * *

They stop relying on chance after that, exchanging numbers and falling into a pattern that’s nothing at all like the habits they developed around each other back in high school. 

Weekends are a wash in the middle of the V.League season with Kyoutani playing games anywhere from Sunagawa to Miyazaki, but the Frogs take Mondays off like Seijoh used to and Yahaba doesn’t have work as late on Thursdays. And anytime in between those, all it takes is a text—not even a full sentence, just a _?_ —from one to the other to see if they’re available. 

Yahaba lives alone and Kyoutani lives in the Frogs’ dorms, so Kyoutani shows up with drinks and takeout (“You can’t just bring fried chicken every damn time, Kyoutani!”) that’s reheated at some point in the evening. Usually, after, because chicken breath is a mood killer, except once when Kyoutani came over starving and hangry and a grumbling stomach turned out to be an even _bigger_ mood killer. Yahaba finds a spare toothbrush and insists Kyoutani brush the taste of chicken out of his mouth before he puts it anywhere near him, though, and after that, it seemed dumb to throw the toothbrush away, so Yahaba doesn’t. Wouldn’t be the last time Kyoutani shows up wanting to eat first, he figures.

It’s a simple, no-frills arrangement, and when they haven’t got Interhigh or their upperclassmen’s honor on the line there’s not a lot to get nasty about. Not anymore. But Yahaba likes the look on Kyoutani’s face when he’s riled up, and at some point, Kyoutani must figure it out because he’s rougher without getting goaded into it, leaving Yahaba’s body a mottled mess of bruises, his knees weak and his bones feeling like absolute jelly.

“Get up,” Kyoutani tells him, nudging his shoulder. “M’hungry. Let’s eat.”

“Think I’ll stay here for a bit,” Yahaba murmurs, too fucked out to pretend not to be. “You go get food, I’m fine.”

But his stomach protests with a growl, so Kyoutani, who snorts at that, heats up their food and brings it back into Yahaba’s room. He balances two bowls and two drinks on a tray, setting it down on Yahaba’s lap before he picks up his bowl and sits cross-legged beside him. “Am I gonna have to feed you too?” he asks, wary.

“Don’t be gross,” Yahaba chides him before digging in. 

* * *

_We’re getting back to Sendai early today_ , Kyoutani’s text reads one Sunday evening. _Probably in the dorms by 8, but the rest of the team’s going to be out. Wanna come over?_

The Frogs’ match against the Tamaden Elephants had an early start, and though the Elephants usually gave the Frogs trouble, the game itself ended up being a heavily one-sided affair that was over in three quick sets. Yahaba had listened to Kyoutani grumble about his teammates now and then, but on the court they were electric and in sync, cutting down the Elephants’ offense at every turn. Yahaba counted six service aces from Kyoutani himself, on top of the vicious points he scored off Koganegawa’s sets. 

Kyoutani had been on fire and Yahaba— 

It reminded Yahaba of their last year as setter and spiker, the tenuous partnership between them that solidified with every successful toss and each decisive spike they accomplished together. Without Oikawa, Yahaba could not get them past the new powerhouses of Miyagi to break into nationals, but they were at least beginning to build something with their team then. 

And in the charged moments after exhilarating wins, the shared grief over their season getting cut short, the weeks that followed when Kyoutani continued to show up to practice—quieter and more determined, more likely to help the younger players, more thoughtful in his assessment of the team when he spoke about training regimens and playing strategies with Yahaba—Yahaba had thought they might have been starting to build something between them too.

They were hovering on the edge of it, whatever it was. But then spring came, graduation not far behind, and Yahaba was on a train to Tokyo quicker than he could linger on what might have been.

It was nothing close to this anyway, he thinks. Nothing like this at all.

 _Yeah I’m free_ , he replies. _I’ll bring food._

They’re on each other before the door to Kyoutani’s room even closes, mouths colliding in eager, messy kisses, desperate hands tugging at clothes and pulling and pushing them away until there’s a trail of discarded clothing from the door to the bed. 

“How was the game?” Yahaba asks with forced casualness, breathless between kisses as he wraps his arms around Kyoutani’s shoulders and grinds down on the thigh Kyoutani slips between his legs.

Kyoutani nips at his lower lip, licking at the bruise there before he pushes his tongue past Yahaba’s lips. “Didn’t see it?” he asks, voice low and raspy. His palm is hot against the flesh of Yahaba’s thigh, the grip firm but not yet painful.

“I was busy,” Yahaba lies, swallowing down his gasp and wrapping his legs around Kyoutani’s waist when Kyoutani lifts him up and pins him to the wall, his hold on him tightening. “Did you win?”

“We slaughtered them,” Kyoutani says, the curl of his lips feral and the glint in his eyes wild in a way Yahaba hasn’t seen in a while. In a way that goes straight to his cock. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes out, because Kyoutani’s so _hot_ and he just— 

“Yeah,” Kyoutani says, gaze flickering from Yahaba’s eyes to his lips. He thumbs at Yahaba’s bottom lip for a moment, watches Yahaba’s tongue dart out to lick it before he sucks it in. It’s the permission Kyoutani must have been looking for because then he presses two fingers to Yahaba’s mouth, letting him wet it with the slide of his tongue. They come out with a pop when he pulls them out, Yahaba replacing the digits with Kyoutani’s lips as he slots their mouths together in a kiss.

Kyoutani’s fingers, when they press against Yahaba, are not nearly slick enough. The friction is a little dry and Yahaba a little tight, but— “Keep going,” Yahaba tells him, the sound he makes low and keening. “Don’t stop, I just—I need—”

“I know,” Kyoutani says, and he’s so good about it, about pacing his movements and loosening him up, stretching him carefully so by the first press of his cock past the tight ring of muscle Yahaba’s begging for it, desperate for more and all of it and the slide is hot and perfect and _fuck, fuck, Kyoutani—_

“I know, I know,” Kyoutani whispers low in his ear, his breath hot and his lips pressed to the curve of his neck. “I got you, c’mon, _fuck_ , lemme hear you come—”

Yahaba shudders full-body when he does, clinging to Kyoutani as he’s fucked through it and then after, until Kyoutani comes too, spilling inside Yahaba with a low moan. 

They stay like that for a bit—Kyoutani’s forehead on Yahaba’s shoulder, Yahaba holding onto Kyoutani, quiet save the sound of their breathing.

“Well shit,” Yahaba finally murmurs with a huff of laughter. “Maybe you guys should try playing like that more often.”

* * *

But they don’t—of course they don’t, sports being what it is—and some games end up worse than others. 

Not that he expected to, but Yahaba doesn’t hear anything from Kyoutani after a brutal thrashing against the Yotsuya Motor Spirits—at least, not until there’s a rapping on his door in the middle of the night, long after he’d turned in. 

Whatever complaint he has about the time dies in his throat when he catches the look on Kyoutani’s face. “Come in.”

Kyoutani doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Yahaba had seen the game. Seen there was something off in his play from the beginning, flinched at all the mistakes he’d made. The spikes that were out of bounds, the mounting frustration that needled him into committing more errors. He’d been targeted from the start, and he’d caved under the pressure of it. It happens from time to time in the course of a long, grueling season, but it doesn’t make it any less crushing.

Especially to someone like Kyoutani, who wore a scowly exterior to bury the fact he always felt too deeply and too keenly, shouldering blame and responsibility for things beyond his control.

Kyoutani wears all of that now in the hunch of his shoulders and the droop of his head, the crisp ‘ _fuck’_ out of his mouth as he drops his forehead to Yahaba’s shoulder, fists clenched at his sides. 

Yahaba lets him stay like that for a while, measuring the length of Kyoutani’s breathing until it’s even and stable before he squeezes Kyoutani’s biceps briefly. “Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs, not expecting the press of Kyoutani’s lips to his when he tilts his face up. 

It’s a slow kiss, Kyoutani’s fingers trembling against the line of his jaw, laced with something sweet when Kyoutani’s tongue rubs against his. Yahaba exhales into it and lets out a moan that Kyoutani echoes, tugging him even closer. 

He’s reluctant to part even if it means making their way to bed, Yahaba on his back and Kyoutani on top of him, his kisses long and sweet and careful, like he’s trying to drown himself in them. The roll of his hips against Yahaba’s reminds them they’ve still got their pants on, so Yahaba snakes his hand between them to shove them away, the first slide of cock against cock drawing out a groan from one of them. 

Maybe both of them. 

It’s lazy, and it’s unhurried. They haven’t taken off their shirts and their pants are caught halfway down their thighs, but it doesn’t matter—Yahaba’s got his arms around Kyoutani, and Kyoutani’s fingers dig deep into Yahaba’s hips. Their lips meet, part, only to meet again, Yahaba lifting his hips to answer every roll of Kyoutani’s. 

Yahaba comes first, his breath stuttering as he peaks. 

“Okay?” Kyoutani asks, letting him catch his breath. 

His eyes are rimmed red and swollen—really it’s Yahaba who should be asking—but he’s looking at Yahaba with such careful concern Yahaba could only nod in response. He reaches down to take Kyoutani, palm slick with his own cum as he strokes Kyoutani the way he’s learned he likes it, going faster and harder from how tight Kyoutani’s hold on him is. Kyoutani comes with a shudder, doesn’t move away from Yahaba as he slacks in his arms, doesn’t lift his head from the way it’s nestled against the crook of Yahaba’s neck.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Yahaba murmurs, drawing lazy circles against Kyoutani’s back with his palm. Moves up to run fingers through the soft buzz of Kyoutani’s hair. Up and down, soft and steady, in time with his breathing, until Kyoutani falls asleep.

* * *

Habit is fried chicken on Mondays and teriyaki on Thursdays, sneaking into the dorms when the team is out and sprawling out on Yahaba’s couch because no one is around. It’s sex against the wall sometimes and sex in bed most times and sex on the kitchen counter once while the microwave was heating up dinner, where it then sat forgotten long enough dinner grew cold again. It’s blowjobs in the shower and texts lining up their schedules. It’s the predictability of Kyoutani complaining about where Yahaba leaves his marks but not stopping him when he does. It’s the way Yahaba likes to nuzzle the back of Kyoutani’s neck after they’ve fucked, arms around his waist and their legs tangled together.

Habit is simple and uncomplicated. 

“Oh thank god, I’m _starving_ ,” Yahaba says when he opens up the door, grabbing the bag of food Kyoutani has. 

“Wanna eat first then?”

“Yeah, work was a mess and I didn’t get to lunch at all—I’ll take care of this, put something on if you want,” Yahaba tells him, moving around the kitchen to get the food reheated. 

“You got Netflix?”

“...Don’t you?”

Yahaba can practically hear the shrug from where he’s standing. “Koganegawa pissed Tsukishima off so he changed the password on him.”

“And?” Yahaba asks, coming back out with dinner that he sets down for them. “What’s that got to do with you?”

Another shrug. “He didn’t give me the password. I only knew because Koganegawa told me,” Kyoutani says, his gaze flickering toward the TV. “Mind if we watch an episode of something? I was in the middle of a show before all that shit went down.”

“Yeah, I don’t care,” Yahaba says, holding his bowl in hand and putting his feet up on the coffee table to watch the opening theme play. “Is this a period drama?”

“Uh, not really. Wait—” Kyoutani glances at him. “How do you feel about zombies?”

Yahaba raises an eyebrow. “I love zombies.”

They’re still on the couch five episodes later, late enough Yahaba would’ve fallen asleep on Kyoutani’s shoulder if he hadn’t been so riveted. (He’s still got his head on Kyoutani’s shoulder though. It’s surprisingly comfortable. But also maybe it’s the back-and-forth brush of Kyoutani’s thumb against his wrist, after he’d grabbed it during a tense moment two and a half episodes ago.) 

“Holy shit,” he whispers after the last reveal.

“I know,” Kyoutani says next to him. He shifts in place, checking the time. “Shit. It’s late.”

“You can crash here if you want,” Yahaba offers. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow but at least you won’t have to commute home at this time.”

“You sure? We didn’t—uh—”

Yahaba shrugs, glancing at the clock, grateful for the dark because his face feels warm. “It was a good show. I liked it.”

“Yeah?” Kyoutani asks. A moment’s pause. “It’s got a second season, you know.”

Habit is— 

Well. It’s what you make it.

* * *

It’s late in the morning when Yahaba wakes up, the sun bright on his face and his phone loud with the chiming of text messages—probably from Watari. Groggily, he reaches out to grab it, swiping it open to see the messages he missed.

**Watari:** _Did you not come home last night or did I miss you leaving this morning?_  
**Watari: __**_Where do you keep your coffee?_  
**Watari: __**_Never mind, found it._  
**Watari: __**_Everyone’s still hungover, so I’m grabbing lunch later with Matsukawa and Hanamaki. You in?_  
**Watari: __**_Matsukawa says bring Kyoutani if you are._

“What’s that about?” Kyoutani yawns behind him, a solid arm finding its way around Yahaba’s chest, Kyoutani’s chin digging into the space between his neck and shoulder. 

Yahaba checks the time—not even ten yet, too early to be awake. “Wanna go to lunch in a bit?” he asks. “Since you refused to join us yesterday.”

He can feel the shape of Kyoutani’s scowl against his skin. “And sit with a bunch of—”

Yahaba can’t help laughing. “You’re _so_ easy to rile up,” he hums, reaching back to stroke the half-hard dick poking the back of his thigh. “Mm, good morning. You didn’t get to last night, did you?”

“S’alright, it was late,” Kyoutani breathes against his neck, lips pressing hot and wet on his skin. “Y’wanted me to fuck you.”

“Still want you to.” 

“Oh yeah?”

Yahaba shoots him a look. “What do you think?” he asks, eyebrow raised. He puts his phone away and reaches for the drawer to grab the lube and a condom for Kyoutani, pushing his own boxers down and rolling onto his stomach. 

“I think you’re easier to rile up than I am,” Kyoutani murmurs behind him, laughter light in his tone, palm warm on Yahaba’s thighs as he nudges his legs apart.

Yahaba sighs, protest forgotten, at the press of soft lips to the back of his neck, velvet tracing the curve of his spine. He buries his face in the pillow as Kyoutani presses cold, lube-slicked fingers against him, lifting his hips toward the push of a digit, of two. 

Kyoutani’s lips are featherlight on the blade of his shoulder, his chest warm against his back as he moves inside him, languid, slow, until Yahaba lets out something that sounds like a whine. 

“Can you just—” he groans, biting his lips down before he starts to beg. He’s lucky Kyoutani’s not the type to tease, too earnest for his own good some days, because that’s all it takes for Kyoutani to line himself up against Yahaba, for cock to replace fingers, for the slow, delicious slide home. 

Kyoutani lets out a soft groan as he bottoms out, breath hot against Yahaba’s skin. He reaches around to take Yahaba in hand, and when he moves, he makes sure to match the pace of his hand with his hips, the rhythm deliberate and lazy and just so fucking _right_. He’s first to spill this time, staying inside Yahaba and stroking him to completion moments later, and for a while—hands and stomach covered in cum, skin a little sticky with summertime warmth—they just lay pressed together like that, a little drowsy, a lot sated, Yahaba catching his breath, Kyoutani mapping the nape of Yahaba’s neck with idle kisses.

“So,” Yahaba says to break the quiet. “You coming to lunch or no?”

Kyoutani tsks. “Are you gonna be obnoxious about Argentina?”

“It’s Matsukawa and Hanamaki. Of course they are,” Yahaba says with a laugh. He turns his head back to look at Kyoutani. “You haven’t seen Watari yet though, and it’s rude to ignore him over this.”

Kyoutani frowns like he’s seriously weighing both options. “Fine,” he finally says, sighing deeply. 

“Good,” Yahaba says, lips parting by habit when Kyoutani leans forward to kiss him deeply— “Oh, gross, brush your teeth first.”

“It’s just morning breath, and yours is worse, so shut up,” Kyoutani grumbles, cupping Yahaba’s cheeks and kissing him again, and he does have a point, so Yahaba— 

“Hey Kyoutani, are you still asleep because the guys wanted to—oh,” someone says, the door swinging open and shutting close almost as quickly, dousing the haziness of the morning like a sudden bucket of cold water to the face. Yahaba jolts and jumps back, tumbling off the bed and landing on his butt, eyes wide and cheeks burning as Kyoutani scrambles over to see if he’s alright.

From outside, Tsukishima continues talking, his voice remaining steady even as it sounds a little muted from behind the door. “Didn’t realize you had company. The guys wanted to grab food. You coming?”

“It’s fine,” Kyoutani tells him. “You go on ahead, we’re going out to lunch with our old team.”

“Alright.” There’s a beat of silence, and Yahaba thinks Tsukishima’s left, but then he adds: “You know, the next time you have your boyfriend over you should really learn to lock the door.”

Kyoutani blinks. Yahaba looks at the floor with renewed interest. 

“Okay,” Kyoutani says. 

He doesn’t correct Tsukishima.

Yahaba won’t ask him to.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always super welcome. ♥ 
> 
> If you liked what you've read, you can [share the tweet here](https://twitter.com/slumberish/status/1360818376197758976). I've also written a handful of [other Haikyuu!! fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/works?fandom_id=758208).


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